Unmasked by her Lover, page 2
“No, but what good would it do you?”
“Martha could say I was always there, and so I couldn’t possibly have been in Connaught Place.”
Harry appeared to consider. “It’s a good plan. I can’t quite understand why His Grace doesn’t send you there post-haste.”
“I think he would rather brazen it out, marry me to someone respectable while he forces the newspaper to retract. He imagines we would all be safer if I were married.”
“You don’t agree?”
“I’ve never wanted to be married.”
“That isn’t true.”
She flushed. “If you mean Calvert, I was glad in the end he chose Martha over me. I have quite forgiven them both for seeing them together. I know I should have hated to be married to him. In fact, I would make anyone a shockingly bad wife, so I decided years ago simply not to marry. So, will you take me to Calvert Court, Harry?”
He regarded her. “If I don’t, you will just hire a post chase, won’t you?”
“Or go on the stagecoach.”
“So, when would you expect me to go? After I’ve spoken to your parents?”
“Lord, no,” she exclaimed. “They would only stop us. No, we must go now.”
He blinked. “I walked from Staunton House.”
“I was hoping you had a curricle or some other conveyance you could drive yourself,” she confided.
“I suppose I could steal—er…borrow Robert’s.”
And suddenly, it was just like being children again, up to mischief, and she could pretend the adult fear of a ruined reputation didn’t matter. She couldn’t help smiling as she jumped to her feet and impulsively threw out her hand to him.
“Then let us be off before my parents notice!”
He held her gaze for a moment. She had no idea what he was thinking. Then, slowly, he reached up, took her hand, and rose to his feet. His fingers felt rough and strong, no longer a boy’s. Strange and unfamiliar, like the man himself.
But this was Harry, and she knew now all would be well.
Chapter Two
Captain Lord Henry de Vere, known as Harry to most of his acquaintances—including his men, although only behind his back—hurried along the street with a mysterious veiled lady on his arm.
He wanted to laugh because his heart had beat like a schoolboy’s as he had approached her house. And yet, within moments, he was embroiled in her mischief once more.
“Your parents will worry,” he said abruptly.
“No, they won’t. I left a note to say you were escorting me to Calvert Court, and they should give out that I had gone there yesterday.”
“You were so sure of me?”
“Actually, no. The note is to stop them worrying, and obviously, it is much more comfortable to travel with you, but I would have gone anyway. Someone is hailing you from across the street.”
“I can’t see them,” he said, keeping his gaze on her veiled face. “I suppose if we change horses on the road, we can be there before nightfall. But what is to stop the duke from simply following you there and continuing with his plan to marry you off?”
“Well, he can’t do that while frightening the proprietor of that dreadful rag, can he? And by the time he comes, he will see that we have already saved my reputation. And oh, if mine is saved, then surely the stories about the others will be doubted, too.”
“I see,” Harry said.
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you,” she offered.
“Well, I was getting bored at home with nothing to do,” he said truthfully. The Duchess of Dearham’s unexpected summons this morning had been a welcome distraction, her mention of Meg the catalyst for a positive flood of memories. He had taught himself long ago not to think of her, but it seemed his heart remembered.
She hadn’t changed, he thought in some amusement. Unafraid and unhemmed by convention, she would find her way out of trouble. And he was glad to come along for her protection.
It was not far to Staunton House, halfway down South Audley Street.
“We’ll wait inside,” Harry said, turning toward the front steps.
She held back. “Oh, no. Then Lady Staunton will know, or think I am your ladybird! And—”
A choke of laughter escaped Harry. “Ladybird? What do you know of such matters?”
“Johnny is my brother,” she said dryly.
“Yes, but I doubt he discusses his ladybirds with his sister,” Harry said. “Don’t hang about the steps, Meg. Alicia is out, and it will only take five minutes.”
Inside, he immediately sent for his brother’s curricle to be brought around from the mews, and, leaving Meg sitting stiffly in the reception room, he ran upstairs to throw a few things in his overnight bag and collect enough money for the journey. He hesitated over leaving a note for Robert but eventually decided not to bother.
Instead, sweeping Meg up on his way to the front door, he said to the butler, “Tell his lordship I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
Robert’s team was fresh and spirited, and they were giving the groom some trouble to hold them. Harry handed Meg up into the seat and climbed up beside her rather awkwardly, due to his still-healing wound.
He gathered the reins. “Let them go!” And they were off.
For a while, he had to concentrate too hard to make conversation. The horses were too eager, and though the streets were not as busy as during the Season, there was still plenty of traffic to negotiate and pedestrians to avoid. Eventually, after the Hyde Park tollgate, on a clearer stretch of road, he let the horses go, and they bowled along much more easily.
Only then did he realize she was watching him. And that they sat so close together that with the faintest movement, he would brush against her shoulder, her thigh… Severely, he dragged himself back to driving the horses.
“What?” he asked. “So, I’m out of practice.”
“Perhaps, but you were always an excellent whip.” Her lovely, dark eyes moved beneath the veil as though she were searching his face. “How are you, Harry?”
He knew what she meant. “Alive and well, which is more than I can say of many.”
She nodded. She might even have leaned just a little into his shoulder in an echo of her old, childish nudge of sympathy. But she stopped herself after the barest instant and said only, “What will you do now that the war is over? Will you sell out?”
He shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet. There’s always a war somewhere.” He glanced at the veil, sensing a faint awkwardness in her, as if she, too, was adjusting to what her old friend had become. “What will you do? Once you have made your appearance at Calvert Court. Will you live with Martha?”
“Oh, dear, no, I couldn’t! I mean to find a way to live by myself, even if just in a cottage. I shall become some village’s mad old spinster.”
“Like Miss Carmichael, with her dozens of cats.”
She laughed with delight at the memory of the elderly and somewhat eccentric lady who had lived on the Dearham estate—an old family governess long ago absorbed into village life. Meg’s mirth was infectious, and he smiled involuntarily. He had missed her.
“Well, perhaps not quite like Miss Carmichael,” she said.
“You never know. You have fifty or sixty years to cultivate the effect. What would you do in your cottage?”
“That is a good question,” she said with unexpected seriousness. “I thought I might write a book.”
He blinked. “I never thought of you as a bluestocking.”
“Oh, not some learned treatise!” she assured him. “I wouldn’t know where to start. But I would like to write a novel—a kind of comedy of manners, but rather less subtle than the author of Pride and Prejudice.”
He cast her a glance. “Using your experience at the Princess of Wales’s court?”
“Amongst other things.”
“Did you like Her Highness?” he asked curiously.
“Very much. She has her faults, of course, and she can be quite vulgar, but more importantly, she is kind and good-natured and brave, and it is, frankly, criminal the way she has been treated. I wish her joy in her new life away from England.” She sighed. “Though to be sure, I had hoped to go with her and see something of the world.”
“Is it the princess’s situation which turned you against marriage?” he asked.
She considered. “It probably helped. But in truth, I think I would always chafe at the oppressive bonds of matrimony. I would hate to be subjugated to a husband.”
“Subjugated does sound bad.”
“Are you laughing at me, Harry de Vere?”
“Actually, no. But while it may be the law, I cannot fancy the chances of any husband trying to subjugate you.”
“Thank you. Though I don’t suppose you meant it as a compliment.”
He laughed. “When were compliments ever necessary between us? Tell me more about your princess.”
Meg seemed happy to oblige, telling him several stories that showed the princess’s kindness or humor or undaunted pursuit of happiness during personal tragedy. There was nothing salacious, no taint of gossip in her stories, and he was curiously glad to see her untouched by cynicism or the excessive liberality, to call it no worse, of the princess’s isolated court.
By the time they drew out of the city, he had also learned more about this new, older Meg, her sense of fun overlaid with unexpected new wisdom and understanding.
But when he offered her the chance to drive for a little, she jumped at it. “Oh, yes, please, if you think Robert—I mean Lord Staunton—wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t believe he would.” He handed her the reins and shifted in his seat to give her more room.
Her eyes sparkled as she directed the horses around bends and bumps and gave them their heads over straight stretches of road. Watching her, it seemed to Harry she must have been too hemmed in by etiquette and convention for too long. She was ready to break free, which offered excitement and entertainment for all.
He couldn’t help a grin of anticipation, which she caught in one quick glance and smiled back so dazzlingly it took his breath away. A pleasant thrill formed in the pit of his belly.
He was in danger of becoming fascinated all over again.
*
On Harry’s advice, they kept to the back roads where they could avoid her being recognized. Meg, with the breeze against her face and the fine horses responsive to her slightest touch, was perfectly happy to add the extra few hours to their journey. After all, she had fallen back very quickly into the bantering companionship which had always existed between her and Harry.
And yet, she acknowledged that their companionship was not quite the same, for she had grown up, and so had he. Five years of his life was almost entirely unknown to her, and she discerned in him a new, self-contained toughness that had not been there before. Battle-hardened and used to the daily discomforts of campaign life, he had experienced the adventure he had always sought, along with the horrors of war and the pain of injury and grief.
In all, this mixture of the strange and the familiar in him intrigued her. On some level, she could not quite believe that the seasoned and undeniably attractive young officer who sat so close to her was truly her old friend.
And then, when she glanced at him, he smiled lazily or said something amusing, and the familiarity and the comfort rushed back.
“I’m afraid the horses are tiring,” she said at last as they blew after a gallop over a better stretch of road. “But there’s a coaching inn in about another mile. We could change them there.”
“I think we’ll have to,” he agreed, “though I’m afraid we’ll get some far inferior animals in exchange. It will slow us down.”
“We should still reach the Court around nightfall,” she said comfortably.
In truth, she didn’t much care if they were a little later. She rather liked being with Harry again. She also enjoyed expertly turning the horses into the inn yard at a good clip, almost preening when Harry murmured a word of appreciation.
Deciding against stopping for more than a drink, they set off again in about ten minutes with fresh horses. Meg, whose arms had begun to ache, was glad to let Harry drive the next stage.
She asked him questions about Portugal and Spain and listened, rapt, to his descriptions of the scenery and customs and magnificent buildings. She laughed at the amusing anecdotes he threw in, even exclaiming once, “Oh, I wish I had been there!”
Only then she remembered he had wanted to marry her, and no doubt take her with him, and hastily changed the subject. But when they lapsed into companionable silence once more, she found herself wondering what her life would have been like if she had married him and followed the drum in the Peninsula. A surge of excitement mingled with a sense of loss.
She had been desperate to accompany the princess on her journey overseas, longing to see other countries and broaden what seemed the shrinking horizons of her life. If she had married Harry…
She tried to imagine her life in an army camp, without the luxuries she took for granted. Uncomfortable, but adventurous, every day would have been different—the people, the countryside… There would have been danger, of course. She hoped she would have been brave. She hoped she would have cared well for Harry when he was wounded. She even imagined them traveling on a baggage cart, his head in her lap while the surgeon tended his wounds.
Silly romanticized view, she was sure, and yet it was oddly appealing. She followed the dream, holding him steady, stroking his hair as the cart bumped over dry and dusty tracks under the sweltering sun.
She didn’t mean to fall asleep. But she hadn’t slept at all last night, and her eyes had grown heavy. She woke from her dream with a start when his hand gripped her shoulder. The horses were still, and his face was inches from hers. A frown of concern marred his brow.
“You must be exhausted,” he said abruptly.
“Oh, no, it’s just I did not sleep last night. I admit I look forward to an early bed.”
“Well, I hope you get it,” he said, passing her the reins. “Because I’m afraid something is wrong with the right wheel.”
She took the reins while he climbed down and bent to examine the vehicle.
“The wheel is buckled,” he reported. “And it feels a bit loose. Certainly, it isn’t safe.”
“Will they be able to fix it in the next village?” she asked anxiously.
“I hope so. Either way, it slows us down. Let’s hope we can make it as far as the village.”
At least luck smiled on them that far. By the time they arrived at the village inn, Harry was leading the horses to ease the weight on the curricle. An ostler came running to meet them.
“Have a look at the right wheel, too, will you?” Harry said, relinquishing the bridle into the ostler’s care and limping around to lift Meg casually down by the waist. “If you can’t fix it, send for a blacksmith or whoever else can. I’d rather not wait more than an hour.”
She was glad his attention was more than half on the ostler and the wheel, for blood flooded into her face at Harry’s careless grasp and easy strength, especially as she expected merely to take his hand as she stepped down.
“I’ll order us a meal,” she murmured, hastening toward the house and leaving Harry to discuss the state of the curricle with the stable hands.
The innkeeper’s wife, who was clearly not used to quality in her house, almost fell over herself to curtsey low enough. It was as well the woman didn’t know she was a duke’s daughter and her escort a marquess’s younger son!
Meg requested a private parlor and a meal for herself and the captain.
The parlor was clean but lacked any pretensions to luxury, having only hard chairs at the scrubbed table and an unadorned wooden settle by the empty fireplace. While the innkeeper’s wife bustled off to arrange dinner, Meg removed her cloak and bonnet and cast them on one of the chairs.
A few minutes later, Harry walked in with his valise, which he dropped beside the door, then threw his hat on top of it. His limp was more pronounced.
“It doesn’t look good,” he said. “They’re fetching the blacksmith, but I doubt this can be done in an hour or even three.”
“Oh, dear. I don’t mind arriving a little late, but I don’t really want to wake the household up at midnight!”
“No. It does rather put the cat amongst the pigeons.” Harry eased himself onto the settle, stretching his leg out in front of him. His relief was not lost on Meg. Nor was the faint tightness around his mouth. He was in pain because of her. But she knew better than to mention it. “It seems to be a choice of spending the night here—unchaperoned—or arriving at your sister’s house in the middle of the night.”
Meg had already made up her mind. Sitting for several hours and then tramping at the heads of the horses had clearly made his wounds ache. “We should just stay.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Your reputation, my lady?”
She shrugged. “As well to be hanged as a sheep than a lamb. Besides, no one knows me here.”
“No, but you’ll have another night unaccounted for.”
“Nonsense. I’m with Martha.”
“And if Martha’s servants say otherwise?”
Meg smiled with a touch of cynicism. “If I know my sister, her servants are so devoted that they will say nothing they are not told to.”
“I don’t like it,” he said, dragging his hands through his hair. The gesture pulled back the hair over his left ear, ragged and mutilated.
“Harry!” She dropped onto the settle beside him, reaching out. “Oh, Harry, your poor ear…” Afraid to touch it, she dropped her hand.
Quickly, he flicked the hair back down to hide it. “You should see the other fellow,” he said flippantly.
“Toulouse?”
His brows flew up as if he hadn’t expected her to know where he was wounded. “Sabre cut. I bled like a pig, but it isn’t serious except to my vanity.”
“And your leg?”
“They dug the ball out. It will mend. What are we having for dinner?”
